


I Need a Miracle, Dr. Novak

by WinchesterSecretFiles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:52:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinchesterSecretFiles/pseuds/WinchesterSecretFiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's alone, he's really, really alone. There was a fire when he was four, and now he's all grown up with nobody, and he's putting out fires of his own. He has to call Dr. Castiel Novak, and pray for a miracle that may or may not come true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calling Castiel Novak

The doctor shook his head, but Dean didn’t crumble. He’d heard this news every month for many, many years. Dean was single, and Dean was alone. He worked as a fireman, the night shift, when the most calls came in, when everyone else was sleeping. During the day, Dean slept. On occasion he’d visit the cemetery. Dean knew far too many people there. His mother, Mary, who died when Dean was only four, in the house fire that started everything; his childhood best friend, Jo, beside her mother, Ellen, who lost their lives in a robbery gone wrong at their saloon, The Roadhouse. There were many others, of course. But the most noticeable gap, the one that still sent Dean reeling, was his brother; Sam, who’d grown up, unconscious in a hospital, from the fire that started in his nursery. Dean did say it was the fire that started everything; it killed his mother, left his brother without a life, made his father run off.

  
This month was different, on the way out of the hospital, a nurse he never considered friendly stopped him, and she told him about a doctor, rumored to be the best for Sam’s condition. Dean himself was never clear on what exactly was ailing his brother, but he’d never given up hope. It was his lungs, almost worse than cancer. It plagued him from the night he turned six months old. If he were awake, maybe, the doctors always said. Dean needed a miracle. It was his baby brother; he had to claim some responsibility. “His name is Castiel,” Meg said, bringing Dean back to the present. “He’ll be expensive, but he may be worth it.”

  
“Uh, thank you,” Dean stuttered, taking the business card. He’d never considered Meg an ally in the hospital, he usually reserved that for the nurses and doctor’s he knew very well. Still, a doctor with the credentials that Meg said he had, he couldn’t pass that up. He slipped the card in the back of his pocket, nodding his thanks and goodbye, shuffling out of the automatic doors.

*

It was late when Castiel received a phone call on his wireless abroad work phone, one that allowed him to take calls from the United States while he worked overseas in Johannesburg, South Africa. “Hello, Dr. Castiel Novak speaking,” Castiel answered, knowing the area code from the caller to be from Kansas. It was that type of usual knowledge that stuck in Castiel’s head, along with knowing that while it was 10:30 at night for Castiel, it was only 5:30 for the caller.

  
“Hi, Dr. Novak. My name is Dean Winchester,” the voice explained, tired and drawn. “I received your business card from someone at the hospital today, and I was wondering if you could help me.”

  
“That depends, Mr. Winchester, what are you looking for?” Castiel asked, wondering who in Kansas had his business card. When Castiel did live in the states, he typically lived in California, which was still a time difference of two hours.

  
“My brother, Sam. He’s been in a coma for nearly his entire life,” Dean said, and the voice ached with pain, even Castiel could hear that. “He’s got unusually high levels of CO in his body, but the hospital has been feeding him oxygen for years. They think because the fire happened when he was so young; he was more susceptible to it. He suffocated only slightly when it happened, but he definitely lost consciousness, and he hasn’t woken up since.”

  
“I see,” Castiel answered, eyes flickering to the coffee machine’s time, and figured if he was going to stay for the long conversation, he might as well be awake. “And what were you looking for me to do?”

  
“Anything,” Dean answered, and this time, defeat was evident in his voice. “I know all about carbon monoxide poisoning, Dr. Novak, I’m a firefighter. I know that because my brother was so young, he should’ve died. He should’ve suffocated seconds after slipping into unconsciousness, but he didn’t. And he’s been fighting for his life all these years. He’s not rejecting the oxygen, he’s perfectly healthy, except the CO won’t leave him, and- and he won’t… wake up.”

  
“You’re asking me to perform a miracle, Mr. Winchester, do you realize that?” Castiel questioned, stirring the spoon in his unsipped coffee. This was always the worst part of being a doctor that sometimes the job required telling people there was no hope left.

  
“I know. It’s what I need,” Dean said quietly, pleading , with either himself or Castiel, he wasn’t sure. “Sam’s all I have left in this world, and if he’s fighting, I have to fight right beside him. If I’m – if he’s going down, we’re going to go down swinging.”

  
“Alright, Mr. Winchester, I’ll see what I can do. Have you explained to your doctor that you’re looking into bringing an outside doctor into treatment?” Castiel asked, fingers curling around the mug and tapping gently.

  
“Not really,” Dean admitted. “I don’t know what I was expecting. I was afraid to admit that this possibility was real.”

  
“Well, I’d suggest letting him know you’re looking into Dr. Castiel Novak, and then please have him email me, so I can ask him to fax over your brother’s medical history and papers alike. Do you have a pen, Mr. Winchester?” There was a moment’s pause, and then Dean spoke his affirmation. “Good, now take this down. N-o-v-a-c-k-C-at-j-o-h-a-n-n-e-s-b-u-r-g-c-l-i-n-i-c-dot-edu. Did you get all that?” Another pause, and Dean agreed, repeating back the email address just as Castiel had given it. “That’s correct. I’m currently out of the country, Mr. Winchester, but as you can see, I can still be reached. Have the doctor email me, and when I receive the faxed transcripts, I’ll call you. It’ll probably be three to five days, maybe a week. Call me if it has been longer than a week.”

  
“Wow,” Dean repeated dumbly. “Thanks. For even taking a look. I don’t know, I don’t know how…” Alone in his small South African apartment, Castiel nodded. He understood that gratification that Dean was feeling. He knew it was feeble and could be crushed nearly instantly. “Here, let me give you my cell number. You can call me if the doctor has any issues with sending you the stuff. You have a pen?” This time Castiel stood, walking into this kitchen and plucking a pen from the small stack on the counter. When he told Mr. Winchester he was ready, the voice on the telephone continued. “785, 962, 42,18. You got that?” Castiel did, and he told Mr. Winchester so. “Thanks again, for even just speaking to me. I’ll hear from you in a week, unless there’s any problems.”

  
“Of course, Mr. Winchester, it is my job,” Castiel answered, smiling slightly. “Yes, call me if there’s any emergencies. Enjoy you’re night, Mr. Winchester, I’ll be in touch.” There was a parting sentence from the man on the telephone before Castiel hung up, spilling his cold coffee down the drain. It was nearing midnight when Castiel finally slipped into the cool sheets of his small bedroom, but he lay awake, going over all he knew about carbon monoxide poisoning and it’s connections to comas.

*

When Dean hung up the phone, he was shaking. It had been years, so many years since he had even the slightest sliver of hope that he was desperately clutching to tonight. He couldn’t even bask in it very long, he had to work soon, and his shift was earlier than usual tonight.

  
On his climb to his bedroom in his two level, rented house, he passed by his mother’s portrait and for the first time in a while, he stopped to study it. Dean knew he looked more like his mother than his brother did, but the kindness that radiated from her? Dean was sure that Sam had it as well. “Angels are watching over you,” Dean said softly, repeating what she had often told Dean every night before sleep took him over. Dean doubted they were watching over her, he was nearly positive she became an angel herself. “Guess what, Mom? Finally got that miracle I’ve been prayin’ for. His name is Castiel Novak, and he’s gonna help Sammy. I know he is.” Dean pressed his pointer finger and middle finger to his mother’s cheek, letting it linger as he continued his trek to his room.

  
There he changed out of his clothes, he always tried to look somewhat presentable when he spoke with Sam’s doctors, but he didn’t need to do that for work. He shrugged on the old black teeshirt he’d had for ages and wiggled on his torn, worn, and frayed jeans, snapping them shut with ease. He was losing weight. Dean ran a hand down his face, feeling stretched to the point of breaking, worn down, drawn out.

  
Sighing, Dean reached for the phone that was attached to the kitchen wall, the same phone he just put down earlier. He knew it was time to tell one of his last remaining family members about Dean’s newest plan to save his brother.

  
“’Ello?” A gruff voice asked, and Dean nearly melted with the familiarity of it.

  
“Bobby,” Dean breathed, not realizing he was also seeking comfort through the older gentleman. “Bobby, I got news.”

  
“What is it? Sam okay?” Bobby asked quickly, thoughts turning to the worst.

  
“No,” Dean laughed, knowing he was close to tears. “No, Sam’s the same as always. But, I got a name. Name of a doctor, Bobby. Someone who’s supposed to be real good at this kind of stuff.”

  
“Yeah? You call him?”

  
“I did. He wants the doctors to fax over Sam’s paperwork. He’s going to give this a shot, Bobby. Sam…. He might wake up.”

  
“Now, boy, you know I want this bad as you do,” Bobby paused, and Dean braced himself. “You gotta prepare yourself. This doctor might not be able to do anything for Sam. Nobody has before.”

  
“He’s my brother, Bobby. I have to do this for him. If there’s even a chance, I have to take it. You know that.”

  
“Dean, you did a good job. Goin’ through all you did, you’s so young. Losin’ Mary, watching John deteriorate the way he did. Growin’ up with your brother in the hospital. I did my best for you ‘n Sam, I did. I’m just afraid… our best can’t save Sam. I don’t wanna lose you too, boy.”

  
There was a long silence on both ends of the phone before Dean mustered up the energy to say goodbye and eat something before work. Dean had the steely resolve at four years old to know that when he grew up, all he wanted to be was a firefighter. His family had been torn apart after the fire, with his mother’s death, his father’s inability to pick himself up after it, his brother’s immediate and seemingly permanent place in the hospital. Dean, even at four years old, was going to save everyone else from the tragic life Dean was destined to live.

  
In Dean’s line of work he met a lot of people, and lost a lot alike too. Tonight Dean was missing an old mate on the force, Victor Henrickson. There was a problem there at the police station, a small fire after a loose wire had coffee spilt on it. Dean was assured that the fire was out, that he was not needed. It wasn’t true, and Henrickson died that night.

  
Tonight, Dean was reminiscing. He remembered the first people he’d saved, children, just a few years younger than himself. An older brother, a middle sister, a little brother were camping in the forest, a way to bond after the death’s of their parents. They put out the fire and went to sleep, but the air was so dry that season. It sparked back up again, and helplessly they realized they were nearly consumed with fire. Dean arrived, first on the scene, and nearly put out the fire singlehandedly. Haley Collins, Dean remembers, was the girl’s name, and she had kissed him against the fire truck as thanks for saving her family. Dean understood, he didn’t have family left either, and Sam was the most important thing to him.

  
The memory easily fades to his next fire, when he realized he couldn’t save everyone. It was started in the bathroom, the son of the woman trapped there called him, and when Dean was there, he pulled the boy first. Everyone was busy focusing on the fire, no one noticed the man slip past. He was just trying to save his daughter, but now she and his grandson have to live without him. Her name was Andrea, and her son Lucas made him sandwiches, brought them to the station next morning. He was devastated it was his first loss. He had no idea how to face the family, he was sure he failed them somehow. They understood, they were grateful, even. Dean took his first steps toward healing.

  
He was at the station now, he usually ran there to keep himself awake and alert for the night. It never worked though, Dean was usually asleep on the stations couch within a few minutes, and usually didn’t wake up until the alarm blared. Tonight was no different from the rest, and Dean walked inside with the full intention of catching the rare sleep. Instead, he set to the task of calling Dr. Garrison, Sam’s doctor, despite the extremely late time. Dr. Garrison himself had lost someone close to him, finally realizing it was time to let his comatose daughter pass peacefully.

  
“Yes, Dean?” Dr. Garrison asked, with no formal greeting.

  
“A nurse, she gave me the number for a doctor,” Dean started, ignoring salutations himself. “Guy named Dr. Castiel Novak. He’s supposed to be able to help. Dude’s in freakin’ South Africa right now. But he wants Sam’s paper work. He gave me his email for you, so you can, I don’t know, check him out or something.”

  
“I’ve heard of him. I must admit though, I never thought of contacting him for Sam’s condition. What is his email?” Dean gave it to Dr. Garrison and repeated his many thanks to the man who repeatedly came through for him and Sam. They said goodbye quickly, due to the lateness and Dean being at work.

  
“Dr. Garrison?” A feminine voice asked, popping up from Dean’s left. He turned, and saw what he expected, a tightly formed ponytail, and a sympathetic looking redhead. Her name was Charlie, and she was becoming a fast friend to Dean.

  
“Yep,” Dean said, snapping his cell phone shut and putting it in his locker. They were mostly used for cell phone’s and wallets, and in the chillier weather, jackets. Firemen couldn’t have any personal items on underneath their already weighted uniforms.

  
“Everything all right with Sam?” Charlie asked next, keeping up with Dean’s stride.

  
“Yeah, Charlie, everything’s good. Thinkin’ about bringing in a new doctor for Sam, that’s all,” Dean explained, reaching for the piss poor excuse of coffee. He poured Charlie a cup, and then himself.

  
“Oh,” Charlie commented, voice quiet. “Thanks.”

  
“Welcome,” Dean answered absentmindedly. “He’s gonna be real expensive though, this new doc. He’s some kind of specialist, but if he can make Sam better…. I gotta try. Right Charlie?”

  
Dean was looking to her for answers, he realized. This poor slip of a thing with all the determination in the world couldn’t have an answer for Dean. Nobody could. Some might try, might say it’s foolish to waste money on something that will most likely never work out. But this isn’t just something, this is Sammy. “Of course, Dean,” Charlie gushed, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t think for a second you’re doing anything wrong. I know you’re worried about money, but we’ll figure it out, okay?”

  
“Oh, no, Charlie, that’s not what I’m asking,” Dean said quickly. “I’m not asking you for money. Yeah, it’ll be a lot, but I’ll handle it. Always have, haven’t I?”

Charlie takes in Dean’s cocky grin and raises a brow, because there is definitely a fault in it today. She takes the higher road and decides not to point it out. Instead, she sighs and admits, “You have.”

*

Castiel is at his medical clinic in Johannesburg, and today is a light day. He’s thankful for it though, after spending the night in such a sleepless way. He’s working in Neurology, and is distributing medical oxygen for cluster headaches.

  
Cluster headaches is a condition that features an immense amount of pain on one side of the head, Castiel dictates to himself as he passes by with the newly refueled oxygen tank.

  
Castiel thought he was supposed to be saving underprivileged lives when he boarded the plane, but it was a mistake. The hospital that needed him was, unknowingly to Castiel, in South Africa. The hospitals there were just like the ones back home in the States.

  
The pager in the hospital asks Castiel to report to the front desk, which he does, after sighing and handing the tank to someone else on the floor. When he reaches the desk, the receptionist smiles and tells him that his cell phone has been going off repeatedly, and would he like to get it in case there is an emergency?

  
Of course Casitel would like to get it, he thinks irritably. He tears through his belongings to find the incessant ringing and it’s a Kansas number, but it’s neither of the numbers that Dean had given Castiel, so he breathes a sigh of relief. Sam must still be alright. 

However, he takes a deep breath and answers the phone a little cautiously, “Hello?”

“Clarence! It’s so good to hear your voice,” the speaker drawls, and Castiel racks his brain. His name isn’t Clarence.

  
“Who may I ask is calling?” Castiel asks, half pulling the phone from his ear to stare at in disbelief.

  
“It’s Meg! Oh c’mon, me and you used to work together, in that psychiatric ward,” the voice- Meg, continues. Castiel can remember now, he and the nurse, Meg, used to help with the neurological process of mental illnesses. Everyone in the ward had called him a miracle worker, and Meg saw to it that she called him Clarence.

  
“Oh. It’s very nice to speak with you too, Meg,” Castiel answers, because it’s the polite thing to do.

  
“Gave some green eyed boy your number, yesterday, he call you?” Meg inquires, and there’s a pop on the line that leads Castiel to believe Meg is eating a sucker.

  
“I don’t know, with phone calls I can’t see eye color,” Castiel deadpans, and Meg hoots.

  
“All right, his name was Dean. There, that help?” She asks, and Castiel remembers her as all sass.

  
“Yes, it does. And yes, he did. Called about his brother,” Castiel answers, and decides to reveal no more. Although he’s not technically working for Mr. Winchester, the doctor-patient privacy shebang was still in tact.

  
“Good, figured he could use some Clarence magic,” Meg continues, and there is the same pop sound. She’s definitely eating a lollipop, Castiel decides. “He comes in at least three times a week, just staring at his brother, it’s pitiful really. Then once every month the doctor comes in to give a progress report, even though there is no progress. Don’t think there ever was.”

  
“Okay Meg, thank you,” Castiel says, unsure of why she’s blabbing all of this to him.

  
“Okay Clarence,” Meg says happily, and it’s enunciated with another pop. “Guess I’ll be seeing you real soon.” Castiel’s nose wrinkles for a minute, and all he’s left with is a dial tone. He decides she’s correct, if he were going to treat Sam Winchester, it’d be at the same hospital she worked at.

  
On his walk back to the Neurology center, Castiel goes over for the countless time, the benefits of medicinal oxygen, and comas. He’s not sure if he can save Sam Winchester, but he’s going to do his very best.

*


	2. Returning to the States

Dean doesn’t bother going home after shedding his yellow firefighter gear. He goes straight to the hospital to visit his brother, and tries to have a one sided conversation with him about bringing in a new doctor.

“He’s probably really expensive, Sammy,” Dean chuckles, but it’s hollow. “I mean, dude’s in freakin’ South Africa right now. I bet he’s all nerdy. I bet you’d be all nerdy too.” Dean draws a calloused hand over his worn face. They’re both taut, and have weathered the weight of the world. Dean’s saved nearly everyone he’s met in his career as a firefighter, but he can’t save the person closest to him: his brother. 

“Jesus, Sam, I don’t know what you’d be like at all,” Dean continues bleakly. “All I have are some fantasies, that if this never happened, what we’d be like. You’d be married with some real nice chick, buyin’ a house, getting ready for a kid. Okay, maybe not quite yet. But I can see it Sam. I can see it, and maybe if Dr. Novak can get you to wake up, maybe it can still happen.”

“Mr. Winchester?” A timid voice asks from the doorway. Dean knows it can’t be Meg that she wouldn’t be that polite. It’s the blonde volunteer that’s been with Sam since she started working. She’s just finished two years at the community college, and she’s saving money to go to California. At the moment, Dean can’t remember her name, so he flashes her a cautious but friendly grin. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I’m leaving soon… and I usually say goodbye to him.”

“Oh, right. Of course, Jessica,” Dean recalls suddenly, backing away from his brother’s bedside.

“Thank you, Mr. Winchester,” Jessica grins then, like she knew all along she’d get her way. Dean is sure that a year or so in California would definitely give her a sharp tongue, and she wouldn’t be so timid. She takes the steps to Sam’s bedside not slowly, or quickly, but steadily. At her own pace, as if she belongs there. And maybe she does, Dean muses silently. She probably spends more time with him than Dean does. “Good bye Sam,” Jessica whispers, brushing aside his long hair. Dean feels like he’s intruding on a personal moment.

Jessica sighs, mustering up a smile and backing away. “Sorry again for interrupting, Mr. Winchester,” she says, facing Dean now.

“Please, call me Dean,” he asks, and then takes a step closer to her. She’s attractive, definitely a spitfire, even if she hides it underneath all the sweetness. Dean can’t find the enthusiasm to flirt this morning though. He does take her hand; wrap the other of his over it. “Thank you for takin’ care of him.”

Jessica blushes, pulling her hand away, although not unkindly. They lift to play with her hair, but she stops midway and smoothes down her scrubs. “You’re welcome, Dean. It’s my job,” she adds the last sentence halfheartedly.

Dean nods, takes the initiative and steps backward, releasing Jessica to the doorway and she does the polite thing, doesn’t speak of what just happened, but the case may be that she was just as confused as Dean. He watches her close the door behind her, and he exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“A girl just like that Sammy,” Dean continues, almost as if the interaction didn’t happen. “I bet she’d be good for you. Keep you on toes and stuff, get you to do stuff that you wouldn’t do in a million years.” Dean doesn’t know how long he continues to mumble to his little brother, but he does fall asleep slumped over his chest.

*

Castiel in conversing late in the evening with Dr. Garrison, the Winchester’s doctor, and he’s amused with his kindness and defiance. He speaks highly of the conscious, elder Winchester, discusses his career, his loyalty to his brother. Castiel briefly wonders if Dr. Garrison is overstepping some sort of boundary, but technically Dean is not his patient, and Castiel rather likes hearing of Dean’s adventures.

It isn’t until the first streaks of sunlight are making their way into Castiel’s office that he realizes he hasn’t even looked over the documents Dr. Garrison had faxed him. He could nearly kick himself, he had made an obligation to Dean Winchester to help his brother out, but he’d been so sidetracked with learning about him.

It wasn’t a very professional way of handling himself, Castiel decided, and while he could be personable, he had a job to do. He stood, stretched, wincing as his back cracked and his glasses slid down his nose, eventually taking them off and settling them on his desk. He felt old; he was surprised he wasn’t sprouting salt and pepper hair.

He gently padded into the kitchen, turning on his coffee machine and humming along with it as it warmed up. He eased the mug under the machine and selected the largest size, and walked back to his office, shuffling up the multiple faxed papers. He picked up his glasses again, pushing them up his nose with a delicate finger.

When he walked back into the kitchen, thumbing through the documents, his coffee was steaming and waiting for him. He grabbed his mug, albeit a little too quickly, as it sloshed over the side and trickled down, scalding his hand. He swore, but then became relieved. It hadn’t soiled any documents. He sets it down on the counter between where his refrigerator is and sink is, where there is a large expanse of unused counter, and rests his forearms on the cool top. He begins reading the first page, eyeing the mug warily before taking a first sip. It’s black, and Castiel can practically feel the caffeine entering his blood stream.

It’s a welcomed feeling, and he considers it an apology, which he accepts gratefully. He reads the first page, which is basic information about the patient, Samuel Winchester, and he notes regretfully that there isn’t much.

He flips it over; figuring if need be he can always return to it. The next few pages are about the night of the accident. About the night Samuel was six months old and sometime during the night, the house in Lawrence, Kansas caught fire in his nursery and he did not wake up. It’s horrific, the event, and he marvels at Dean’s ability to actively and willingly run into the heat after what had happened to him.

The details are sketchy, Castiel realizes, and he suddenly understands Dean’s inability to provide much information over the phone. Even the doctors, the professionals, don’t understand what happened to him. Judging by this report and the limited knowledge he has at the moment, neither can Castiel.

Another night in a row Castiel’s coffee goes nearly untouched, and he thinks haphazardly that Dean Winchester may unknowingly kick his caffeine addiction. He pours it down the drain, watching it swirl before finally leaving the sink, but that’s not what he’s focusing on. He’s trying to conclude how expensive it would be to take a leave of absence from Johannesburg and go back to the States. Go to Kansas, specifically.

Sam Winchester presents a challenge, Castiel realizes. He would like very much to save this man, because that is what Castiel does; he is Clarence, he is a miracle worker. People are counting on him, and Castiel is never one to disappoint. When he finally falls asleep at seven in the morning, he isn’t sure if returning to America is cost efficient, but he knows that even if it’s not, he’s going to do it anyway.

*

“Dean?” Dr. Garrison’s voice rouses Dean from the unsettled sleep he was fitfully enjoying. He startles with a snort, wiping his mouth.

“Yeah?” Dean looks down at himself. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot, I’m not allowed to stay the night.” Dean acknowledges the rule, and Dr. Garrison scolds him, but it’s just a rouse. Dean is allowed to stay the night, so long as they both know it’s technically not allowed.

“I was emailing with Dr. Novak yesterday evening,” Dr. Garrison continues, checking Sam’s vitals and writing them down on his clipboard. Dean wonders why he even bothers, they never change. They’re a constant beeping, but Dean knows that it’s the only way to know his brother is still alive. “He seems very competent, not that I doubted it. But he seems very… dedicated, already. Which is important with circumstances like these.”

Dean knows what Dr. Garrison means. He’s talking about how precocious Sam’s life is, how completely insane the task Dean has set upon Castiel is. Suddenly he’s relieved; his assumption at Castiel’s ability hadn’t been deluded. If Dr. Garrison can admit that Castiel seems competent, maybe Dean isn’t searching for a far-fetched fantasy after all. 

Dr. Garrison exits the room without another word, and Dean grasps for his brother’s hand. “Looks like you might be gettin’ yourself a white picket fence after all, Sammy,” he sighs, feeling exhausted though he’d spent the night here. He hardly slept anymore, not with his job and the hours he spent at the hospital. It wasn’t expected of him to sleep. Sam slept. That’s all he did. Slept, without a conscious thought or act.

Dean often wondered if Sam could hear him, could hear him reading, or talking, or spilling his make believes about Sam’s life if the fire had never happened. Sam was Dean’s entire world, and the entire world was just pretend. It was very, very easy to crush a pretend world, but yet, nobody had the heart to. Nobody could tell Dean Winchester to give up hope on his brother. Nobody could, not after seeing the kind of faith Dean had.

Dean wasn’t a religious man; he’d seen far too many tragedies to believe in a benevolent God. He didn’t pray, that was a sign of weakness, a sign he couldn’t handle life himself. God, if he existed, was an asshole, Dean always mused. He’d taken away his mother, almost took away his brother, and started slowly killing his father. There was no chance in Hell Dean could have faith in a man that destroyed his life. If anything, Dean had faith in doctors and firefighters like himself. Firefighters that had saved Sam, when it looked like all-else was lost, from the fire that took away his mother. Doctors, that said even though Sam appeared to be dead, was still fighting, his small six-month-old heart beating steadily.

It was partly why Dean had become a firefighter, well; actually, it was always why. He wasn’t smart enough to be a doctor, couldn’t save people that way. Perhaps, Dean mused to himself often in high school, he could save people before they needed doctors. He could rush into burning buildings, that wasn’t scary. Most people thought it were, the idea of running into certain death, but no, that was the easy part. The hard part was coming back out. Sometimes, you had to come back out with nobody, you had to face the fact that you lived, and some did not. That was the hard part.

*

Castiel had bid his goodbyes to the doctors of the Johannesburg Clinic, and while he would miss the colleagues and patients, he didn’t feel any remorse. Coming to a foreign country to doctor was what Castiel had wanted, but South Africa hadn’t felt like another country. Returning to the States, returning to working miracles on seemingly doomed patients were where Castiel belonged.

He was in the airport now, the tiniest one he’d ever been in, aside from the time he’d landed here months ago. He’d placed his carry on bag on the conveyor belt, then stripped himself of any metal that would be on his person. The belt, the watch, the pens that were always in his pocket, change from when he’d tipped the taxi driver, and dumped them in a separate plastic container beside his bag, and finally walked, sock footed through the metal detector.

He grinned triumphantly when he made it through with no annoying noises, no signs that he had failed the test. His bags and belongings passed through with no trouble as well, and Castiel grinned further. He’d considered this airport a pass, as Castiel was usually horribly forgetful and took him three tries to pass any of these metal tests.

He redid his shoes, tying the laces tightly, re attaching his watch, stuffing his pens back in his various pockets, and slipping the change to mingle with them too, and finally, he slipped back on his belt, notching it to his preference. He slung the bag over his shoulder, and made his way to his terminal, which was saying something, because this was the smallest airport Castiel’s ever been to, and they shouldn’t have terminals. But they do.

When he reached his terminal, a smug grin on his face, because really this was just a section of the airport- the only section, so terminals weren’t really necessary, he sat down on the empty bench and reached for his cell phone, only to realize he hadn’t brought it with him. His international phone was rented, and stayed in South Africa. He’d need a payphone, then, for the call he wanted to make.

Grateful for the change he received, he slid it into the payphone, happy to be rid of it after all. He dialed the number to make an out of state call, then rapped in the phone number Castiel had learned to know by heart. It rang, and Castiel tried to account for time differences, but couldn’t make it that far because a voice answered promptly.

“Ello?” the voice asked, gruffer than any voice Castiel’s dealt with before.

“Hello, I’m looking for Dean Winchester,” Castiel continued, unperterbed by the stranger.

“He’s not able to come to the phone right now, what can I do ya for?” the voice continued.

“Are you sure?” Castiel insisted. “It’s important, about his brother- Samuel.”

“What do you know about Sam?” and the gruff voice turned accusing. Castiel never would’ve thought the voice that answered the phone could’ve been described as friendly, but he would’ve done anything to hear it again after that.

“I’m….” Castiel found himself floundering, and then flushed at the idea. He was a doctor, for Christ sakes, he should not be feeling this way. “I’m Dr. Novak, Dean called me a few weeks ago about Samuel. I just wanted to tell him something.”

“Oh, alright,” the voice answered, and it seemed to have released a breath. “Dean’s sleepin’ right now, but I’ll let him know when he wakes up, so go on and tell me what it is.”

Castiel felt apprehensive about leaving a message to this strange man who hadn’t even given his name, but Castiel shook his head. The message didn’t contain anything of importance, nothing that couldn’t be shared with a stranger willing to pass on the information. “I just wanted to let him know that I’m boarding a plane now to return to America, and that I’ll be in touch- in person, with him soon.”

“Oh, alright. Dean’ll love to wake up to that news,” the voice answered, easily amused and yet, still so rough.

“Good, I’m glad. Thank you for all your help, Mr….” Castiel trailed off. He never received a name from this man.

“Singer, Bobby Singer,” the voice supplied. “You’re welcome, boy. Just get ‘ere and fix Sam up, will ya?” It seemed that that had served as the goodbye, because all Castiel received after that was the dial tone.

After a surprised moment, the automated female voice of the operater spoke, “Would you like to make another call?” Castiel shook his head to nobody, and hung up the payphone.

He headed back to his still empty bench, reaching for one of the pens in his pocket, wondering if he could find anything to jot down his notes on. After searching his bag and finding nothing of use, most of his belongings were in the bigger suitcases; already boarded the plane, but he did find a seemingly discarded napkin. It would have to do, he blinked, flattening it out over his knee, and writing down some facts about lungs he hadn’t thought twice about before Sam Winchester meddled his comatose way into his life.

*

When woke up, Bobby was still at his place. Stretching, and wincing when he heard bones pop, he walked down his stairs, to where Bobby was watching the game on his television. “Thought you would’ve left after I passed out,” Dean commented, eyes flickering to the TV. It was an old game; this was just the highlight reel.

“Was gunna,” Bobby said truthfully, bringing the beer bottle to his lips. “Then the phone rang.” Dean groaned. He hated sleeping through the phone. One day, Dr. Garrison could call the phone and break important news about Sam, and what was Dean going to do? Sleep through it? No way, not on his watch. “Don’t worry, wasn’t Garrison,” Bobby appeased. “’Nother doctor, some Novak fella. Said he’s on a plane to the states, and can’t wait to meet your stupid ass face.”

Dean laughed; Bobby was improvising that message for sure. He cut off with wide eyes, and cocked his head at Bobby. “Wait, what?” His hand scratched at his head like some actor with bad skills attempting to be confused. “He’s on his way… here? You serious, Bobby?”

Bobby nodded, then looked angry. “You’d think I’d hang out here to deliver fake news when I could get back to my books? No, you idjit.” Dean gasped out another laugh, thankful Bobby wasn’t actually angry with him. Bobby rose and shook his head, depositing his empty beer bottle into Dean’s hand and thanking him for his hospitality. Dean laughed, stronger this time, Bobby came and went as he pleased, took the beer he wanted, and TiVo’d his own damn shows here. Dean’s hospitability had nothing to do with it, seeing as he was asleep in his bedroom for the length of time Bobby had ‘visited’.

He walked Bobby to the door anyway, grinning faintly at the crap junk trunk that he drives, though he could have the pick of the lot at his Salvage Yard. That was probably the first car Bobby ever bought, and with his knowledge on cars, probably kept it running as perfect as the day he’d bought it, up until now. It still ran better than most cars Dean saw on the road, and it was so distinctly Bobby, Dean couldn’t picture him behind the wheel of any other car.

Bobby drove somewhere that would always be achingly familiar, but he’d never know he was driving there until it was too late. The house was abandoned, the white paint turning a dull gray; the windows boarded up, the porch looking rotted and caved in. He stared at the windows for as long as he could manage, squinting in an effort to make it out. There, that was movement. It was exactly what Bobby was hoping to see.

Sighing, Bobby got out of his truck and slammed the door behind him, watching the shadow in the window carefully as he made the loud noise. The shadow scurried away, and Bobby bit his lip, thinking it over. This had nothing to do with the boys, he decided at last, continuing his trek to the house. He knocked on the door, though he didn’t need to, really, technically no one lived there. “John? John it’s me, Bobby, open up,” he asked, knocking again. He heard movement inside the house, but the door wasn’t opening.

Bobby didn’t mind, he told himself, opening the door and stepping in. “John, it’s just me, just Bobby,” he reiterated, blinking as the dusty house transformed beneath his eyelids into the house that John and Mary, so excited, so young, were first buying. When he opened them again, the tragedy still surrounded him. So, apparently, did John.

“What do you want?” John asked, twitching. Bobby tried not to notice, not when he couldn’t help. John had been in an insane downward spiral since Mary, since Sam. It started with the depression and alcohol, then turned into apparent mental diseases showing forth. They often appeared at times of stress. Bobby knows that before the fire, before Sam was even born, Mary and John started having problems. Work was beginning to get tight, John was making himself less available for Mary and his small son, Dean. They’d worked through it though, and they’d had Sam.

John had once told Bobby that Sam was the savior to his marriage. Nothing could save his marriage from that fateful fire, Bobby thought guiltily. John was just rebuilding himself, and he had broke again. He’d kept on until Dean was in high school, and then faded in and out of his life quickly after that. Dean, alongside Bobby, had tried to get his ailing father help. It worked, just a few months at a time, but nothing stuck.

The pills to help him cope made him forget Mary, he said, and refused to take them out of the doctor’s watchful eye. Dean grew angry, and he had the right to. John had not been a father to Dean, and yet, all Dean wanted was to help. Bobby was his oldest friend, and he knew where to find John when others didn’t. Here, at his first house, where Mary was strongest. Where he could pretend everything was the way it used to be, the best.

“Just wanted to see you, John,” Bobby answered. “Your boy’s doin’ alright, got some bigwig doctor to come help Sam. “ Bobby explained, hoping the news would help John see the light, help him get help. It was a useless battle.

“Bobby, what’re you talking about?” John asked, and his eyes were hazy and distant. “My boys are fine, they’re upstairs. I was just saying good night to Sam, actually. Then I was gonna tuck Dean in, and spend the night with my wife.”

Bobby shook his head; John was stuck in his fantasy. Nobody, no force could make John realize the truth. He’d only get angry if Bobby tried to strip him of it, and sometimes an angry John turned into a violent John. “Right, of course, John,” Bobby said sadly. “You know where to find me if you need me.” He’d walked out of the house, closing the door on the calls of John looking for his deceased wife. He crossed the street and returned inside his vehicle, driving back to his house. It wasn’t much, Bobby knew, but it was home and he loved it.


	3. Just Some Information

I'll be doing some major reworking of this story,  
in fact it might be taken down so far.  
I'm hoping to make this as accurate as possible, but I'm not a doctor!  
I'm really interested in making sure this goes how I want it to, so if you fell in love with this already, please stick around!


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